


heavy is the heart that wanders

by ohlawsons



Series: cat nua [1]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Character Study, F/F, F/M, POE Mini Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 05:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13757613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlawsons/pseuds/ohlawsons
Summary: “For each and every person that you’re stronger than, you owe them. To defend them, to protect them, to serve them.” Myra’s expression softens, and she kneels down before Neria; the godlike still towers over her but less so, now, and she places a hand on Neria’s shoulder in a grip that’s both grounding and comforting. “Strength for the sake of being strong is reckless, but strength for the sake of protecting is something to be proud of. Be vicious, be angry, be a fighter — but do so for the right reasons.”With every struggle comes a lesson, and it hasn't been an easy road for Neria.





	1. willowspire, 2803AI

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @pillarspromptsweekly PoE Mini Bang 2018!
> 
> The art was done by the amazing haonqq!

Neria gets her first weapon when she’s twelve.

It’s a simple staff, as plain as they come and little more than a limb pulled from a tree. There aren’t the intricate designs woven into the wood, or the rune work etched into the base, or the delicate carvings at the top that Myra’s staff has. But Neria doesn’t care, because she’s been asking incessantly for weeks, and now she has a weapon of her own.

When Myra presents it to her, Neria reaches for it greedily but the monk doesn’t loosen her grip, instead holding her other hand up and giving a single, disappointed finger wag in Neria’s direction.

“There are rules,” she says sternly, “and there are burdens that come with this. With every weapon you master, with every fighting style you ingrain into your mind and body, there is one thing you must understand.”

Neria stares up at her, wide eyes hidden beneath her mask-like growths across her face. She nods, urging Myra to continue; she doesn’t like rules — never has — but she’ll listen to whatever she has to if it means getting her hands on this staff.

“For each and every person that you’re stronger than, you owe them. To defend them, to protect them, to serve them.” Myra’s expression softens, and she kneels down before Neria; the godlike still towers over her but less so, now, and she places a hand on Neria’s shoulder in a grip that’s both grounding and comforting. “Strength for the sake of being strong is _reckless_ , but strength for the sake of protecting is something to be proud of. Be vicious, be angry, be a _fighter_ — but do so for the right reasons.”

She simply nods a second time, because she thinks she understands the words even if she doesn’t quite know what to do with them yet. When Myra hands her the staff, she takes it eagerly and holds it in her hands, taking in the weight and the feel and every detail of it, because it’s _hers_ and it’s her way to protect herself now and no one can take that away from her. She doesn’t part with it for days, propping it up against the wall beside her bed when she sleeps and resting it across her lap beneath the table when she eats.

It’s been nearly a week before Myra confronts her about it, one evening as she’s ushering Neria to bed. She sits on the bed, reaching for the staff and setting it aside as she pats the empty sheets beside her. “Tell me something, Ri-ri,” Myra begins, and Neria scrunches her nose up at the childish nickname; she hasn’t heard it from Myra in years, and the fact that she’s using it now means there’s bad news coming, she’s certain. “Why do you want the staff?”

With a considerable lack of grace, Neria clambers up onto the bed and sits beside her adoptive mother, curling up and nestling into her side. It’s an obvious question, she thinks, one with an answer that Myra surely already knows. “So I can beat people up when they’re mean to me,” she says with a pout, curling one hand into a little fist and punching the air. “And so that I look scary and people leave me alone, that way I don’t even have to beat them up and they’re already scared of me.”

To her surprise, Myra doesn’t admonish her for the answer she gives. Instead she smiles down at her, shaking her head a bit as she pulls Neria closer. “You’ve already forgotten my most important lesson,” she says after a moment, but her tone is still soft and not yet stern. “The strongest fighters are those who _defend_ ,” she reminds her, reaching over to poke at Neria’s exposed stomach and drawing out a surprised squeak as she curls up into a ball.

“But why?”

“Because there is nothing more dangerous than power. A woman who conquers will destroy her enemies, but will also destroy the lives of many innocent people who lack the strength to protect themselves. But a woman who _defends_ — she will best her enemies, too, but save the lives of those weaker than her.”

With a frown, Neria flops back onto her back and props her feet up in Myra’s lap, staring at her toes as she wiggles them in her mismatched socks. She doesn’t think Myra’s advice is quite correct, not really — if you can _fight_ for the right reasons, after all, then you can _conquer_ for the right reasons, too — but she doesn’t say it, because Myra’s her one chance to learn to actually use the staff she’s been given and Neria refuses to let the opportunity pass her by. “I don’t know,” she admits finally, letting out a long, heavy sigh. “What if they’re _really_ evil?”

“Then you’re defending those who they’ve wronged.” Myra leans down as if she’s sharing a secret, voice lowering to nearly a whisper as she adds, “Even if it’s just you — then you’re defending yourself.”

“So I can beat up everyone who’s mean to me.”

Myra shakes her head, and her words are still gentle but Neria can sense the edge of disappointment that begins to creep into her voice. “You can stand up for yourself if anyone makes fun of you, yes. But being the one to instigate anything will make you the woman who conquers. Strive to be the woman who defends.”

But Neria’s eyes are growing heavy and her thoughts are fuzzy with sleep; she reaches for her pillow, still half-sprawled on Myra’s lap, and gives a tired nod. “I’m gonna conquer all of Rauatai and _then_ defend it. ‘Specially from Mona at school because she’s real mean.”

“Well, I guess your heart’s in the right place.”

 

***

 

In time, the staff changes, as does Neria. She grows four whole inches over the next two years, but it isn’t quite enough to outgrow the staff. It becomes an extension of her, in a way, and she understands at last what Myra keeps telling her about responsibility and strength; she takes the staff with her everywhere she goes, and is always quick to pick a fight if she believes the reasons are justified.

(Myra tells her she’s still missing the point, and Neria picks a fight about that, too.)

But then Neria begins to learn to fight with a blade, and the staff becomes less a weapon and more a crutch to carry with her. She feels safer with it when people speak out against her — she was always avoided and pointedly ignored as a child, but now that she’s the very grown up age of fourteen, she faces vile and vitriol from her peers and adults alike — because as much as she trusts her fists, the staff hurts more.

As she stops training with it, she begins carving. Neria weaves intricate designs into the base of the staff, sculpts an elegant lion’s head at the top and, one day when she gets bored, she scrawls her name into the wood along the middle. She takes thin strips of fabric — a deep dusky blue, the color of the sky during a storm — and wraps then around the staff, layering them until she has a thick handhold. She names it _Willowspire_ — because all weapons with tales attached to them have names, and Neria intends to make her mark on folklore — and carves out the silhouette of a willow tree from the bones of a stag and embeds it into the wood.

Slowly, the staff becomes a thing of beauty more than it is a weapon, and with each addition Myra takes the opportunity to try and teach Neria again about strength and protection. The words stick, but it takes longer for the lesson itself to sink in, and even when she gives up Willowspire Neria has yet to fully grasp what it is that Myra’s telling her about responsibility.

It happens a few weeks after she turns fifteen, the day after she gets her first kiss. She and the other girl, an orlan named Rhea with fur the green-blue of the sea, are caught by some of the other kids from school, and by the next day Rhea’s being tormented and teased as bad as Neria ever has. She takes her staff and her fists and leaves two of the other kids bruised and crying and breaks the arm of a third before he runs off.

Rhea runs off after him, eyes wide with fear, and she won’t even look at Neria anymore so she takes Willowspire and throws it into the ocean — it drifts back in with the tide and she throws it again, yelling out over the crashing waves for Ondra to just _take_ the stupid thing — and when she gets home she curls up in bed beneath the blankets, refusing to talk to Myra. The whole story spills out later that evening, and Myra sits with Neria and tells her it’ll be fine even if it hurts now. She knows Myra thinks she went too far in fighting back, but neither of them say it.

Instead, Myra tells her that sometimes it can be difficult to stand up for what’s right, and somehow that only makes Neria feel worse about the whole situation.


	2. rauatai longsword, 2810AI

She joins the army at nineteen, when Myra leaves to go back home to Ixamitl.

They give her a sword — standard issue — and it’s cold, plain. It has a flat, simple blade and a hilt wrapped with dull leather. Neria would prefer something with a bit more reach, like a spear or a pike, but she takes the sword without complaint and learns to use it as effectively as someone of her stature can.

She’s _good_ with the sword, she learns in time, better than many of the soldiers and mercenaries and raiders she’s fighting with and against. Their reservations about her do offer some slight advantage, she supposes; ally and foe alike tend to recoil from the dark, mask-like growths that cover her eyes and upper face, and simultaneously underestimate her for her orlan’s size. But Neria is a vicious fighter, tenacious and brutal in a way that stands out amongst the otherwise indistinguishable, disciplined soldiers.

Neria can’t help it, really, because she fights the way she’s always fought — she pours every ounce of her strength and conviction into each blow, focused only on the adrenaline that buzzes through her and the burn of the effort in her limbs. She fights because she’s good at it, because it’s easy, because there’s nothing else she can think to do that she would be successful enough to turn into a full time career. She wonders if she hasn’t perhaps forgotten the reasons why she _should_ fight, but Myra’s lessons seem so much harder to recall now that she’s gone and Neria has rent to pay and food to buy.

So she keeps fighting, because it doesn’t matter and there’s a bitterness that grows and festers within her with every sideways look, every sneering taunt, every gasp of fear she receives. If they still see her as an usher of death and a servant of the Pallid Knight and all anyone thinks of her is her connection to Berath then, well, it’s rather fitting that she’s helping to send so many to the Wheel, isn’t it?

 

*****

 

Seven years pass, and they aren’t years without pain or strife but they pass all the same.

Neria makes no attempt to hide her continued surprise that she’s made it this far, for this long, with this amount of good luck. She’s engaged, now, to a woman who means the world to her, and despite every attempt to tear her down the army has only toughened her and given her a healthy respect for the tenacity of kith. She has a new sword, and it’s her fourth or fifth since she’s joined but she’s lost count because they’re each the same, plain and simple and _uniform_.

The standard issue armor has changed a bit over the years, though, to a loose scale mail that still sits too large on Neria despite the insistence of her superiors that it’s made for orlan. She would do better joining up with the raiders that hit them from the coast, she thinks, because they’re surrounded by stories from the Republics and Aedyr of orlans and godlike and former slaves all fleeing home and finding freedom on the seas.

It’s a romantic notion — unbelievably so — but Neria prefers solid ground beneath her feet. She served aboard a navy ship, once, for several months and it was unpredictable enough to sate her but the crack of cannon fire isn’t near as satisfying as the weight of a sword in her hand.

Besides, she remembers enough of Myra’s teachings that the idea of a life defined by raiding and pillaging is distasteful. So she remains with the army, because it’s the marginally less distasteful choice.

“I don’t get it,” Neria admits one morning. She’s running her hand through Eloisa’s hair, fingers carding through the thick curls as the two of them lay tangled together in bed, covered by nothing but thin bedsheets and the soft morning sunlight that streams in through a half-open window. “It’s all about… anonymity, I guess. Equality. I don’t know. We’re given the same armor and the same weapons, anyone of the same rank and position is completely interchangeable, and yet…”

“Hmm…?” Eloisa turns and cranes her neck to look back at Neria, and her dark eyes glow tawny and bright as the sun washes over her face.

“It’s like they’ve found a way to use that against me,” she continues, her attention briefly captured by Eloisa’s form stretched out beside her. “ _We_ _’re all the same, except you_. And while I do always appreciate the gesture,” she adds quickly, “please don’t tell me to embrace my individuality again. That’s _really_ easy to say when you’re human. Especially when you’re beautiful and talented and come from a family with respect and connections.”

There’s a hint of bitterness to her words but Eloisa doesn’t seem to catch it. She reaches up for Neria’s free hand, twining their fingers together. “Perhaps. But I’m Vailian, the daughter of a trader, in a nation wanting to rid itself of foreign influence. My respect for my home is hard earned, Neria.”

It’s a solid point, Neria thinks, but far from the _counterpoint_ that Eloisa seems to think it is; with a small amount of effort Eloisa could easily blend into the background, could become indistinguishable from any of the other ocean folk in Rauatai. She _won_ _’t_ , they both know, but she has the option and it’s one that Neria hasn’t ever had.

Not that she would take it, either, because as much as she loathes the mark of the gods she wouldn’t give it up for anything; it’s a long-healed scar from a war she’s still fighting, a grudge she can continue to hold against Berath. Perhaps spite isn’t the best motivation, but it’s the most useful, and that’s enough to keep Neria going, for now.


	3. shatterstar, 2817AI

She leaves Rauatai a few months later. Her sword — not the same one she received when she joined the army but the same make, same feel — joins her on the road, and it’s sterile and impersonal but that’s what she needs for now.

The woman who joined the army all those years ago was proud and brash and hotheaded; the woman who leaves Rauatai now is all those things, too, but she’s also _tired_ — tired of war, tired of hatred, tired of feeling like she has no control or direction over anything. She’s grown weary of the mechanical course of her life, and the realization unsettles her and shakes her enough that she simply leaves, one day, walking away from stability and a fiancee and a future.

Neria wanders for months, far beyond her home, and searches for something she doesn’t know the name of. What she _finds_ is a certainty, of mind if not of circumstance, and a love for the road. She slowly begins to push back that _tiredness_ that had crept into her mind and body alike, finding reprieve in rowdy taverns and under open skies with all manner of lovers and adversaries and traveling companions. But she’s still missing what she set out for, that sensation that she can’t quite place, and it’s nearly a year later before she discovers the name of it.

Purpose.

She doesn’t come to the realization alone; she’s traveling through the Vailian Republics, on the road between towns, and making camp with an older woman, a grey-haired dwarf named Carys, who Neria can’t quite decide if she’s a merchant or just an eccentric hoarder. They swap stories around a fire, and as Neria finishes lamenting the loss of her fiancee, the woman begins spinning a tale of redemption and forgiveness. She’s a priest of Eothas, Carys explains, and Neria lays back with a scoff and stares at unfamiliar stars.

“Ignore me if you wish,” she says with a good-natured laugh. “It’s been over a decade since the war and I still risk being killed just for daring to visit my home — a bit of sacrilege won’t bother me. And if it bothers Eothas, well, he’s not really here to argue anymore, is he?”

Neria looks over just in time to see Carys hold a finger up to her lips conspiratorially. Lips pursing in interest, she props herself up on an elbow and frowns at the dwarf. “If Eothas is… gone,” she asks, uncomfortable calling a god _dead_ even though she’s in no way religious herself, “and people hate him so much, why on Eora do you still worship him? And _preach_ about it?”

The mischievous glint in the priest’s eyes disappears, and for a moment the crows’ feet and laugh lines etched on her face seem more an indicator of age and weariness than they do joy. She looks up with a sad smile. “I lost many friends to the Readcerans. I lost more to my own people, afterwards. Tragedy makes people do funny things.”

“So tragedy made you wander the countryside with a cart full of junk?”

Carys’ face lights up and she lets out a loud laugh. “No, no, that’s not it. I meant my countrymen made mistakes, striking out against Eothasians after the war. _I_ am doing what I’ve always done — helping people find their second chance. Like _you_ ,” she adds thoughtfully, giving Neria a slow, appraising look. “What is it that you’re looking for?”

Letting out a long sigh, Neria flops back so that she’s laying again, resting her head back on her hands. “Isn’t that like cheating? Aren’t you preachy sorts supposed to have all the answers?”

She gives a disappointed _cluck_ of her tongue. “How am I supposed to help you find what you _need_ if I don’t know what you want?”

“I don’t want anything.” It’s not an outright lie, not quite, because Neria doesn’t _know_ what she wants. She enjoys traveling, enjoys the freedom and lack of responsibilities but something’s missing, and she doesn’t know how to explain it all to Carys and really, she isn’t sure Carys is deserving of an explanation.

But the priest gives a low _ahh_ as if she suddenly understands. “That’s why you travel, then. No direction, no desires, so you follow the whims of the road.” Neria sits up to give her a suspicious glare, but before she can say anything, Carys adds, “That’s good! This is the perfect place for a new beginning.”

“Why?” Neria doesn’t intend the word to be quite so harsh, so accusatory, but it is and she doesn’t take it back.

“Here, here, I have something for you.” With a grunt of effort, Carys pushes herself to her feet and shuffles over to her cart, rummaging through the junk and hoisting out a hammer. The haft is wrapped in a deep scarlet leather, and the head is a brilliant bronze that glows and shimmers in the firelight. Neria leans forward subconsciously, already drawn to such a breathtaking weapon, but Carys stops her by holding up a cautious finger. “Listen, first.”

She gives an eager nod.

“This is a blunt thing, good for fighting. But beautiful, too.” Carys gives the hammer a little pat. “It was crafted specifically for the Saints’ War, made from ore carved out of the heart of a meteorite. It was lost during one of the battles, but I think it’s time it was found again.” Pausing, she gives Neria a pointed look. “It’s like you, I think. Built for war, forged from something special, and lost in all the fighting. You both need a new start, wouldn’t you say?”

Neria reaches out to take the hammer, testing its weight as she nods. “But the road, and traveling, and all this — it _is_ my new beginning. That’s why I left Rauatai,” she admits, and if she sounds like she’s genuinely interested in the priest’s advice, neither of them comment on it.

Carys smiles at her from across the fire, and it’s warm and it reaches all the way to her eyes. “You needed to leave, so you began traveling. Now you need somewhere to _go_. You have freedom, certainly, but what about _purpose_?” Without pretense, Carys waves Neria away and turns back to rummage through her cart again. “Now quiet. I’m old, and tired, and need sleep. Think on this tonight, and if you have questions when you wake, I will answer them then.” She pulls out a bedroll and lays down beside the cart, leaving Neria in sudden, stunned silence.

She _does_ have questions — dozens of them — but she does as Carys says and sleeps, comforted by the silence of the night and the warmth of the fire and the new presence of her hammer beside her. When she wakes, Carys and her cart are gone, leaving only the barely-smoking ashes of their fire, but Neria finds she doesn’t have questions any more.

Purpose. That’s what she’s been looking for, and now she has a name for it. She doesn’t know where to find it, but she knows where to look, and as soon as she’s packed up her things she swings the hammer up to rest on her shoulder and begins down the long road back to Ixamitl and Myra.


	4. whispers of yenwood, 2823AI

It’s been a long time since she’s had a home, but Caed Nua seems like a place Neria wouldn’t mind sticking around.

She hasn’t had real friends in a while, either, and the group she’s traveling with now is _certainly_ worth sticking with. There aren’t many of them, really, but it’s more than she’s traveled with in a long time and she’s grateful for their company.

Mostly.

There’s the wizard she met the first night in Gilded Vale, and even though there’s something a bit off about him, she likes him well enough and he’s certainly handy in a fight. There’s the farmer with the odd sense of humor, and although Neria doesn’t quite understand his bright, cavalier attitude, it’s refreshing so she takes it in stride. There’s the opinionated priest who tagged along somewhat uninvited, and Neria’s not too thrilled about him, but at least it gives her someone to argue with when she needs to pass the time. Their newest addition is a cheery aumaua, a chanter whose stories Neria has come to enjoy even in the few days they’ve traveled together.

Caed Nua’s a disaster, for now, but between the four of them (five, when Durance is feeling helpful) they’ve nearly cleared the main hall. The Steward claims she can take care of it, but Neria shies away from her and the oddity of a spirit locked in a throne; manual labor is simple, and something she understands, so she doesn’t at all mind spending three days straight hauling rock and wood out of her new keep.

It’s on the fourth day, when most of the rest of the group is spending the day taking a well-earned rest, when Neria first notices the glint of something beneath one of the larger pieces of rubble in the main hall. All of the smaller rock has been cleared away, but a few large blocks still clutter the hall, and in the morning light pouring in from the open double doors, Neria catches sight of something bright.

She stops midway through her inspection of the infrastructure and takes a closer look at the stone blocking whatever it is that caught her eye. Rubbing her hands together, she lets out a slow breath and bends down, grabbing the edge of the stone and lifting. It’s _heavy_ — which is why they hadn’t cleared it yet — but Neria raises it up just enough to see a pristine sword that flickers with an arcane glow.

“Well, fuck.” With a grunt of frustration, Neria glances around the hall, uncertain how she’s going to retrieve the sword. She’s nearly ready to drop the stone and come back with help when Edér walks across the grounds, just in view of her through the open doors. “Edér!” He turns, glancing around in confusion, and Neria calls out his name again. “In the main hall! Being slowly crushed. By a very heavy rock.”

“You need help?” he calls as he jogs over to her, and Neria lets her cheek rest against the cool stone because it’s heavy, and she just _really_ wants that sword.

“Yes. Well—” She glances up over the stone, then down to where the sword is, and makes an attempt at a shrug. Her arms are beginning to burn, now. “No. Not with this. I’ve got the rock, but there’s a sword down there.”

He’s already reaching to help with the stone as he approaches, but Neria gives a stubborn shake of her head.

“I’ve got it,” she repeats. “Sword. Down there. Hurry, please.”

Edér helps with the stone anyway, taking just enough of the weight that Neria can’t really be angry. With a curious look down to where the sword is, Edér gives a light laugh and turns to Neria, brow raised. “You sure you got it?”

“Not if you don’t hurry,” she shoots back, the words coming out in a lilting sing-song to hide the strain. When Edér disappears from view, Neria’s arms begin to shake with the full weight of the stone; she hears the scrape of metal against stone and then Edér climbs back into view, and Neria lets out a breathy sigh. “Watch out!” she calls, waiting until she’s absolutely certain Edér is far enough back before she pushes off from the rock, letting it drop to the ground with a thunderous _crack_ that leaves her ears momentarily ringing.

There’s a yelp from outside that could only have come from Kana, and Neria finds herself laughing both at the sound and at the sudden relief in her limbs. “Everything’s fine.” Still laughing, she looks up to Edér with a wide grin, rolling her shoulders and giving her arms a loose shake before holding a hand out. “Thank you, but I’ll be taking that. Especially since I did all the heavy lifting.”

He relents with a brief nod. “Can’t argue with that.” Before handing the sword over, Edér holds it up to inspect it, eyes going wide as the rows of runes inscribed on the blade begin to glow and alight.

Neria lets out a tired _whoop!_ and punches the air half-heartedly. “Flaming sword. Always better than a plain ol’ _non-_ flaming sword.” She takes it and holds it, watching for several moments as the enchanted fire licks up the side of the blade, curling and twisting around the runes on the dark metal. “Shit, this is the _best_.”

As impressed as she is with the sword, it gets little use. Neria carries it with her when they leave Caed Nua, but it largely remains sheathed in favor of the war hammer she’s carried with her all these years. It draws some stares onces they reach Defiance Bay, she thinks, but then again she’s used to receiving second looks and double takes so maybe it isn’t the sword, after all. When they return home — and Caed Nua _is_ home, or at least the closest thing to it, because it’s familiar now in a way inns on the road aren’t — Neria props it up on the dresser in her room. It’s a shame, really, to hide away a weapon this _beautiful_ , but better for it to be preserved and appreciated than for it to risk damage while traveling.

Kana is the first to comment on it, one evening while the two of them are sitting by the fire and trading stories of the things they miss about Rauatai, and says something about not realizing she still even had the sword. Neria doesn’t want the sword to be lost all over again, tucked away and forgotten like it had been when she’d found it beneath the rubble, so she takes it from her room and mounts it in the main hall where any visitors and petitioners can see it.

It’s soon followed by another sword — an elegant estoc, this time — then a dented shield, then an intricate crossbow. Neria hasn’t ever thought much of being called _Lady_ , but it’s far more palatable now that most references to _the Lady of Caed Nua_ are followed by gossip about her extensive weapons collection.

If that’s what people associate with her name, she’ll take the stuffy title, too.


	5. the grey sleeper, 2824AI

In hindsight, she supposes she should’ve considered _why_ such a beautiful sword was sitting, unattended, in a block of stone and ice and had gone so long unclaimed. There had been specters, sure, but that hardly fazes Neria these days and she’d been more preoccupied with the fact that the sword had been so damn difficult to get out of the pedestal it had been on.

It had taken a few good minutes to tug the sword free, and Neria could’ve sworn she’d heard it _screaming_ in her mind as she pulled; but like most bad decisions Neria makes, she had been too focused on the potential payoff to consider the risk. She hadn’t even realized there was anything wrong with the sword until later that afternoon, after they’d had a brief rest and set out in search of some slavers with a good price on their heads. When they’d reached the group of elves, Neria had reached for her war hammer — as she’s done hundreds of times over the past several years — and had been so caught up in the haze of her blood lust during the battle that it wasn’t until the last of the slavers fell that she noticed she’d been using the sword instead of her hammer and hand axe.

She’d considered it odd, and a bit disconcerting — and then the next fight was the same, and the next, and she realized she couldn’t force herself to draw any weapon _except_ the sword and the screams at the edge of her consciousness had yet to fade.

They’ve made camp the next night, just outside the doors of the Battery, and Neria offers to take first watch because she knows there’s little chance of her getting any sleep, not with the howling of the damn sword ringing in her mind. Once the rest of the group has settled in for the night, Neria goes to sit on the top step of the Battery entrance, resting her elbows on her knees and staring out over the snow.

She reaches for her hammer — her favorite weapon, the only one she’s carried with her for _years_ — and without fail, her hand lands atop the hilt of the cursed sword. She spits, watches it hit the snow, then stares up at the cloud covered sky.

It’s only a few minutes later that she hears footsteps against the snow and stone behind her, and Neria lets her head drop into her hands as Edér joins her. He sits two steps lower than Neria, and they’re nearly eye-level and it makes it that much harder to avoid him when he turns to her. “You doin’ alright?”

She wants to say _yes_ , wants to say that everything’s fine and he shouldn’t worry, that he needs to rest so he can take over the watch in a few hours. But she doesn’t say any of that, and even if she did she knows he wouldn’t believe it, anyway. So instead, she reaches over and takes one of his hands and holds onto it like a lifeline, remaining silent for the moment and not yet looking at him.

“That bad, huh?” There’s a levity to Edér’s voice, but concern, too, and when Neria doesn’t answer he leans over to give her a little nudge with his shoulder.

But she isn’t sure how to explain, how to tell him that it’s this _sword_ , this one little thing that’s leaving her helpless and out of control and sends her right back to the army in Rauatai, where everything she did was wrong and brash and she could count on one hand the number of people that saw her as something other than a failure. Neria doesn’t know how to sum all of that up, so she settles for a deep breath and a quick prayer that her voice doesn’t shake, and admits in a small voice, “I miss my hammer.”

He gives her an odd look. “I know you don’t want that sword to go to waste, but if you don’t want to use it I’m sure someone else—”

“No,” she interrupts, too quickly, and after a silent internal debate with herself Neria decides that she has little choice but to explain the situation; she’d been _trying_ to keep the extent of the curse to herself, mostly because she doesn’t want to worry any of the group but partly because she’s still trying to deny it to herself. “I don’t think I can. It’s…” She spares a glance back towards the rest of the camp, making sure no one else is listening in. “The fucking sword is cursed,” she mutters beneath her breath, burying her face in her free hand.

“Cursed?”

“Oh, yes, please,” she grumbles, words muffled, “announce it to everyone.”

“Neria.” Edér’s hand tightens on hers in a comforting squeeze, and it isn’t until she pulls herself up to look at him that he continues. “You roped a god into helping you end fifteen years of the Legacy — one cursed sword ain’t gonna stand a chance against you.”

Something about his words draws a quiet laugh from her, and it lifts her spirit just enough that Neria gives up on pouting for a moment. “Not that simple, sweetheart,” she informs him, enjoying the curious look he gives her at the unfamiliar endearment. “I don’t think Galawain’s the sort to provide help without proper compensation, and if it were as easy as ending the Legacy I would’ve figured it out already. All I really did with Thaos is hit him until he stopped moving, remember, and I don’t think that’ll work with the sword.”

“Not what I meant, _darlin_ _’_ ,” he shoots back, with a wry grin and a look of pointed amusement that’s _almost_ distracting enough to drown out the voices of the sword in Neria’s mind. “I was thinking more about the fact that most of what we did in the past year was damn near impossible. And if it does come down to bribing a god to help us out with this,” he pauses to give a little shrug, “then you know you got me and Hiravias and the whole rest of ‘em over there.”

She doesn’t know that the gods can help her with this, anyway, not with the way the sword has latched onto her soul — she’s heard of these before, of weapons and trinkets and armor that are laced with soul energy and can be connected to a person through some unbreakable bond — but it’s good to know that Edér’s willing to try, so she doesn’t say anything to dash his hopes just yet. Instead, she slides down closer to him, as if the physical proximity of his warmth and optimism will be enough to silence both her own doubts and the presence of the sword.


	6. abydon's hammer, 2825AI

They return to Stalwart a few months later, and the hunt to call off the horde advancing on the Dyrwood leads Neria and the others to a secluded abbey dedicated to Ondra. They’re on the upper levels of the Reliquary, just beyond the Veil of Tears, when a glint of metal in the snow is catches Neria’s eye as they trek back through the Abbey of the Fallen Moon; with a quiet _ooh!_ of interest, she slips beneath the upper jaw of the massive skeletal head sealed in ice atop the abbey — pausing to look back with both disgust and worry — and reaches greedily for what she assumes is, at best, a forgotten weapon.

(She means, of course, some simple sword discarded by one of the more combative members of the abbey, not a fragment of a god’s weapon whose very memory has been claimed by Ondra. The vision and conversation that follow leave her reeling with both disbelief and rage.)

As Neria pulls herself from her momentary stupor, she sits upright in the snow, coughing and spitting up salty sea water as she clutches the fragment of Abydon’s hammer. “Oh, fuck _off_ ,” she yells, looking up to glare at the sky but finding only the bleached white roof of the skeletal jaw. “ _Memories inform everything we do_ ,” she mocks as she stands, marching out from under the skull to continue her tirade against Ondra in the moonlight. “Or maybe you’re just a shitty person! _We can_ _’t involve ourselves in matters of the kith_ — but you’ll fucking steal our memories? And try to just destroy part of Eora because, what, _you_ thought it was necessary?” She stomps across the snow, ignoring the concerned and confused looks her friends are giving her, and hurls the metal fragment at the skeleton in frustration; she regrets it immediately, if only because the vision of Abydon’s hammer was so entirely awe-inspiring, and retrieves the fragment with a grimace.

“Is… everything alright?”

She doesn’t look back at Kana but gives a slow nod, still glaring at the outer walls of the abbey. “Oh, sure. Ondra’s a fucking self-absorbed, hypocritical _asshole_ , but that’s not really a surprise, is it.”

Aloth clears his throat, and when he speaks the words are overly cautious and measured, even for him. “Perhaps we could save your… reservations about Ondra for when we _aren_ _’t_ at one of her holy sites?”

“No, I want to make sure she knows exactly what I think of her and her stupid beliefs.” She shakes the hammer fragment at the sky, as if to punctuate the statement. “I’m gonna reforge this gods-damned hammer, and I’m gonna do it at the gods-damned White Forge, and I’m gonna use it to kill all your gods-damned protectors at Ionni Brathr. And then, once I save the fucking Dyrwood _again_ , I’m gonna go find Abydon and tell him about that time you _killed_ him and stole the Eyeless!” Neria rocks back on her heels, satisfied that perhaps she’s made her point, but then she remembers the sadistic ritual cleansing done at the abbey in Ondra’s name and another burst of rage sparks through her. “You’re not even a real god!” she taunts. “The Engwithans _made_ you, and you’re—”

“Okay, alright, that’s enough,” Hiravias interrupts, grabbing Neria’s arm and beginning to pull her back towards the rest of the group. “Now you’re just being petty, and I actually have to agree with Aloth on this one. Maybe we _shouldn_ _’t_ taunt a god while we’re at her abbey. Especially after sabotaging that ritual and killing pretty much everyone here. I’m living proof that it doesn’t end well,” he adds, releasing Neria’s arm as his good ear twitches in what she assumes is either amusement at her ranting or paranoia at Ondra’s possible repercussions.

She quits yelling, but Neria’s fury continues on in silence as they make their way back to the White Forge. She hasn’t decided what, exactly, she’s going to do once they arrive; it’s been a long day, after all, and it’s nearing dark as Durgan’s Battery comes into view, and besides — she’s never been any good at smithing. It’s been a few years since she’s tried her hand at it, but the craft requires a deftness that Neria’s never quite possessed.

Not that it matters, because she’s determined to do exactly what she promised to Ondra back at the abbey — reforge the hammer and seek her revenge at Caryon’s Scar. When they reach the Battery, Neria marches in without comment, dimly aware of the way most of her companions’ shoulders drop in subtle protest. So she stops, once they’re all out of the frigid evening wind, and turns to them with a reluctant sigh.

“Maybe the rest of you should go on back to Stalwart,” she suggests. “I’m… I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I’ve _got_ to fix this hammer.”

Neria looks between them, and some of them share a look between each other, but Edér is the first to speak up. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ll stay.” Turning to Neria, he adds, “Hate to leave you alone, especially with as mad as Ondra got when all you did was _find_ a piece of the hammer.”

“You just want to see me work the forge.” She winks, even though the godlike growths over her eyes hide it from him.

“True.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Still doesn’t mean I want to leave you alone to deal with the wrath of a god.”

Edér steps forward to stand beside Neria, and she glances back at the rest of the group. “There isn’t anything we _can_ do if Ondra really wants you dead,” Hiravias points out, joining the pair, “but you should know by now I’m not giving you up without a fight.” He elbows her in the side and gives her a wide grin. “Especially not to a god.”

With a somewhat sheepish smile, Kana turns to look at Pallegina and Aloth, then moves to stand with the others. “I would almost hate to miss it if Ondra _does_ try to stop you. Not— not that I _want_ her to, of course,” he assures her, “but think of the stories we could tell of it!”

Aloth bites at his lip, looking past the group and deeper into the Battery, and sighs. “I… suppose we might as well all stay, in that case.”

“Indeed,” Pallegina agrees. “Hiravias is right, Neria, as much as it pains me to admit it. We will not allow the gods to take you so easily.”

“You know,” Neria begins as she leads the way down towards the White Forge, forcing a tone of cheerfulness to the words, “I _do_ love the support, but I’m pretty sure Ondra’s not going to try anything. I think she actually wants for me to restore Abydon’s hammer. I don’t know _why_ , and honestly if I did it would probably just piss me off, but,” she shrugs, “I’m not worried. Yet.”

Hiravias laughs, the sound loud and echoing through the warm stone halls. “All that shouting and cursing, and that was you _agreeing_ with a god?”

“We didn’t agree on a damn thing,” she shoots over her shoulder. “The only reason I’m doing this is because I really, _really_ want a divine hammer. Ondra has some big plan that I think ends with destroying the Eyeless.”

“Which… is also what we want?” Kana asks slowly. “Isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah. For now. Ondra said there’s some big catch — which she won’t tell me — but there has to be a way to get rid of them without completely following through with her plan. Worst case, I’ll just kill them each individually with my fancy new hammer.”

“Didn’t you say there were _thousands_ in your dream?”

“Details, Kana. Details.”

 

*****

 

As expected, she spends _hours_ toiling at the Forge.

To Neria’s surprise, though, she knows exactly what to do when she arrives; the heat of the molten rivers beneath the floor and the smokey haze to the air seems to ignite memories that aren’t even hers. This is different, in a way, to when she looks at another’s soul — it comes from the fragment of the hammer in her hands, and it’s almost as if Abydon himself guides her as she slowly reshapes the metal into something that’s both new and familiar all at once.

It’s well past midnight when she pauses for a brief break, muscles burning with effort and chest heaving with each breath. She’s long since shed her armor, the chain mail and gauntlets piled up on one of the nearby tables amongst ingots of Durgan steel. The sleeves of her sweat-soaked tunic are rolled up to her elbows, and as she breaks from her hammering she lifts the bottom of her shirt up to wipe at her face.

She’s exhausted, but it feels fucking _great_.

Looking around, Neria finds that most of the group has either left, presumably to find somewhere to spend the night, or fallen asleep on one of the benches lining the room. Edér and Hiravias seem to be the only two left awake, and both perk up as she sets the reforged hammer down.

“Is it finished?” Hiravias asks tiredly, rubbing at his good eye as he pads over to inspect Neria’s handiwork.

“Not quite. I still have some engraving to do.” She runs a hand along the level surface of the hammer, realizing with an odd pang that she can keenly feel the sense of _loss_ , like she actually misses the carvings that were on the larger original when Abydon still wielded it. “It… it has to be an exact replica of Abydon’s. I can’t explain why, it’s just the only way I know how to do this.”

“It looks good,” Edér comments, lifting it with a grunt. “Feels good. Bit heavy.”

Lips pursed, Neria holds out a hand and easily takes the hammer as he gives it back. “For _you_ , maybe,” she teases, swinging the hammer up to rest on her shoulder. Her aching muscles protest the weight, and she barely manages to hold back a groan of effort. “I’ll finish it tomorrow morning. Or… later this morning, I guess.” She sets the hammer back on the table and admits, “I need a break. My arms are going to fall off if I do anything else.” With a lazy smile, she reaches for one of Edér’s hands and tugs him towards the stairs that lead up out of the Forge itself. “I’ve got myself a divine weapon.”


	7. the storm-forged, 2828AI

“You gonna keep using that hammer?”

Neria looks up to Edér with a little shrug, watching as he wipes at his brow and leaves a smudge of dirt and soot across his forehead; they’re both more than a little singed, having encountered the seemingly endless number of traps here beneath Dyrford Village. The Skaenites that they’re tracking — the resurging remnants of the cult they’d thought destroyed — are both crafty and unforgiving, and are beginning to wear down on both Neria and Edér. “Why wouldn’t I?” she asks, a challenge creeping into her voice as she swings the war hammer up to rest on one shoulder.

He laughs and gives a slow shake of his head. “Not tryin’ to take it from you or anything. Just wondering if all those fancy druid spells were gonna change anything or if they’re just for show.”

She shrugs again, disappointment beginning to blossom in her chest, white-hot and searing. It’s been months, now, since she’d begun training with the druids in Twin Elms, and even though she’s grasped the basics of spellcasting she’s far from comfortable enough to use any of the spells in combat. She _had_ lit the fire in Edér’s fireplace the night before with little more than a wave of her hands, but that’s hardly useful when she can swing a physical weapon hard enough to cleave kith in two. “It takes a _lot_ of concentration,” she admits. “I don’t really have enough practice to use spells while fighting yet, and definitely not enough to actually rely on them. Besides, you don’t really think I’m giving up my war hammer, do you?”

“I’d worry about you if you did.”

“Well, good news — I don’t plan on parting with it for a while.” She grins up at him then cocks her head sharply to the side, nodding towards where the tunnels wind and twist into darkness and out of view. They slowly make their way deeper into the Skaenites’ new lair, the subject of Neria’s meager magical abilities all but forgotten as another sprung trap sends them both diving for cover as the darkness is splintered by the burning flash of a radiant spell.

Edér’s words make her think, though, and once they’re back in town — battered and unsuccessful but still in one piece — Neria seeks out the blacksmith, an idea beginning to form in her mind. Winfrith is more than happy to work with her, and she leaves him with a request and a decent amount of coin. She doesn’t say anything to Edér, and she leaves for Caed Nua the next day and when she returns to Dyrford a few weeks later, the first thing she does is visit Winfrith.

He’s finished, much to Neria’s delight, and hands over the staff she’d requested on her last visit. It’s _brilliant_ , far more beautiful than she had even imagined; it’s made of a dark ebony metal, twisted and shaped to resemble gnarled wood that weaves and stretches up to cradle a vibrant shadowy gem that glitters and sparks in the warm light of the shop. The large black opal is cut in a shape similar to a flame, and the rainbow of colors in its cracked surface seem to flicker and jump across the surface; when Neria takes the staff in hand it’s _warm_ , and an enchantment in the weapon burns and ignites and a smoky onyx shadow curls around the opal. Maybe it doesn’t look like the weapon of a druid, but it certainly looks like one for _Neria_ , and she leaves Winfirth with a generous tip and eagerly leaves with the staff.

She calls it _The Storm-forged_ , because that’s what her druid training has been so far, hasn’t it? Borne of strife and tempered through conflict, and Neria intends for this to be less a weapon of combat and more of a _reminder_ , like Willowspire had been for her all those years ago when Myra gave it to her; she took up her first weapon as a means to fight back, and she took up her druidic training as a means to serve, and so she takes up The Storm-forged as a means to _guide_.

Because for each and every person that she’s stronger than — and that’s _most_ people, these days — she owes them. To protect them. To defend them.

She tells Myra as much, when the godlike comes to visit Caed Nua. Neria gives her a tour of the grounds, and introduces her to her cat, Pepper, and stumbles over her words as she explains how her relationship with Edér has grown; as they walk along the eastern barricade, quiet as Myra surveys the keep that her daughter now calls _home_ , Neria decides that if she’s going to speak it should be now.

“You remember Willowspire?” she asks as she finishes describing the new staff she’d had commissioned. She doesn’t look up at Myra, for fear of finding disappointment or judgment in her mother’s eyes. “And you remember what it meant? What you told me about protecting?”

But Myra doesn’t answer, not at first; she kneels down, instead, and with her aumaua’s height she still towers over Neria but less so, now, and places her calloused hands on Neria’s shoulders. “I do. I remember an eager young girl, one who thought she could talk the tide from coming in, if only her conviction burned brightly enough. And I remember a jaded young woman who thought she had to tear the world apart just because she had something to prove.” She pauses, giving a soft smile as her grip on Neria’s shoulders tightens in a comforting squeeze. “I look at you now, and all the things you’ve accomplished and all the people you’ve surrounded yourself with, and I see a woman with clarity and purpose.”

It’s too generous, Neria thinks, but perhaps not surprising given Myra’s own bias towards the situation. Still, the love and pride in her voice is enough that Neria doesn’t know how to respond, so she settles for throwing her arms around Myra and giving her a tight hug. “I don’t know about _clarity_ ,” she says with a little laugh, “but I definitely have purpose. And I owe a lot of that to you.”

Myra gives a low chuckle, and Neria feels it more in the way her shoulders shake than she hears it in her voice. “You’ve been through so much, and you’ve learned so much more. And I’m so, _so_ proud of you, Ri-ri.”

 


End file.
